But I need her honesty.
I type in a message, hoping she’ll give it to me.
Tell me who you are!
She doesn’t answer for longer than acceptable, though she’s seen my message. I grab my phone, ready to call her when she texts me back.
Summer
Who am I? I’m someone who’s fucked up, and yet you like me, not despite it, but for it. That makes you fucked-up, too, by the way. I’m someone who’s been alone for some time and hates the confines of my desolate room. Someone who didn’t want to like you, but here I am telling you all of this. I suck at tennis. Shocker, right, since I’m that good at handling balls. I’m great at math, and I know endless historical battle accounts. My father used to tell us those as bedtime stories instead of fairy tales. My fourth-grade teacher, Miss Morris, hated my brother and me because she suspected we were the ones who filled the tank of her car with water. That mean old bitch deserved it. Because of Milo’s no-boys-around-me policy, my best friend took pity on me, and she was my first kiss. I kissed a girl and I liked it. I’ve been with two men before you. I’m sure you don’t have the same count as mine. Or have you fucked men?
She carries so much hurt, sweeping it under the rug with her humor. Yet she gives me truths. Not the ones I asked for, but the ones that truly matter. How she feels, what she loves, things from her past that made her who she is. But I’m greedy.
Give me more!
Radio silence for the longest ten minutes, before she replies.
Summer
I don’t have a favorite color in the typical sense like most people do, but the closest thing to that notion for me is teal and turquoise. Did you know most people’s favorite color is blue? Maybe because it reminds them of the sky and the ocean, even though they’re only perceived as blue because of how light interacts with the atmosphere and water. My best friend told me that little fun fact a few years ago, and now every time I look at the sky or the ocean, I feel deceived. My favorite dish is creamy lemon chicken piccata, and not to boast or anything, but no one makes it quite like me. I’m allergic to peanuts, so there you go, a way for you to kill me if you want to. I don’t even carry an EpiPen. It’s not like I have a death wish. Been there, and it’s no fun. Once, for a whole minute, when I was eleven (not because of peanuts), and once, almost there, ten months ago, when my whole family was killed before my eyes in the most brutal ways possible. So what’s your favorite color?
She watched them die. Tortured?
It wasn’t a car crash like the record Link dug out stated. I thought she carried a lot of pain. It turns out it’s mountains stacked on mountains, but she still finds it in her to put on a strong facade.
Two texts. So much information. So many more questions. What happened to her when she was eleven? Who killed her family? Why? How did she get away? I think she gave me the answer to that last question when she said Eli saved her life. I want to know all the answers. I want to know everything about her, but what she gave me today must’ve been hard enough to share. I’ll ask for more, but not now. Now, I need to be there for her. Summer will never admit to anyweakness, pain, or need, nor would she seek comfort. But I won’t ask her to. If I hurry, I might get to her before she goes to sleep.
Putting on a shirt and a jacket, I rush down the stairs, answering Link’s single question.
“I’m sleeping over at Summer’s dorm.”
She’s not expecting me, and I bet she’ll be disappointed at not hearing from me after that last deeply personal text. But that feeling will wash away when she’s no longer alone.
I already have a high-priority task for tomorrow. Acquire an EpiPen. I’ll tell Connor to get me two. I could ask him for a private jet or a missile, and he’d deliver by morning.
I’ve never covered the distance between the house and the university campus in such a short time, not caring if I get pulled over. It’s not like I have a body in the trunk... currently.
Getting out of the car, I don’t walk, but run, taking two or three steps at a time up the stairs. I hope she hasn’t fallen asleep. I have a question to answer, after all.
When I get to her door, I don’t stop to knock or put an ear to it. For the first time, I’ll break into her room, and she’ll be happy to see me. And no, it’s not my delusional brain talking. We’ve come a long way from my first break-in and her denying the attraction she has for me.
Chapter 27
Atlas
“Fucking mess!” Summer curses, slapping the phone face-down on the nearby counter, while I keep watching her, leaning against the wall as I wait for her to realize she’s not alone.
Bracing both hands on the sink, she lowers her head for a beat. Then she looks up at her reflection, combing damp strands away from her face. She glances at her phone but doesn’t flip it over or take it when she leaves the bathroom, switching off the lights behind her.
A couple of steps inside her room are all it takes before she finally notices me and screams out a sharp, “Fuck!”
“You scared the hell out of me,” she says, one hand resting on her chest.
“Not possible. Nothing could take the hell out of you,” I retort and push myself off the wall, taking a step in her direction.
Her hands clench into fists, and she’s quick to back away, her body visibly tense.
I halt, studying her. She eyes me right back.
